


i'll give you the sun

by orphan_account



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, DNF, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, M/M, dreamnotfound, generic probably but its been on my mind forever, its always gotta be the hospital au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28531041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In their little bubble between life and death, despite all, Dream would give George the sun, unrelenting as their souls become less tethered to their dying bodies.“When I die, I don’t want to be leaving with the desire to live. I want to die knowing my life was well lived.”“Don’t say that. We aren’t going to die.” George says instead, staring into the dulling green eyes, confident and optimistic with a faith that was previously nonexistent.He will not let go of the possibility of life. The possibility of doing all that they couldn’t in their spiritless bubble. The possibility of waking up with Dream.“I know we aren’t,” Dream chuckles, voice cracking in a watery smile. “Because I can’t die with my biggest regret.”“I can’t die knowing I didn’t spend enough time with you, George.”
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), dreamnotfound- relationship
Comments: 29
Kudos: 139





	i'll give you the sun

**Author's Note:**

> omg okay so ive had this au stuck in my mind for a while and i could not get anything done unless i wrote it so here it is!
> 
> some background info: both dream and george are in a coma. the farther away you are able to drift from your body is a sign you are leaving because your soul is pulling to beyond the safe haven on the "shore" between life and death. dream has been there two weeks before george. also, george is somewhat more hopeful than dream because he has been in there shorter and has been accompanied by dream from the start.
> 
> lmao i had to do so much research but everything is probably still very inaccurate.
> 
> enjoy!

An incessant beep, the only constant to his mere existence, breaks George out of his trance like state. Slowly, he opens his eyes back to reality. From one blinding white light, he is met with yet another. 

A clipboard sits on the counter, detailing his personal information.

_George Davidson. Age 24. Male. Born 11/01/1996. 5’9. Reason for admittance—_

The words start to blur before his eyes and he turns away.

_Where am I? What am I doing?_

Questions run rampant through his head but all that escapes his lips, however, is a simple “Hello?”

He is met with an uncomfortable silence. As his eyes focus from the blinding white light and adjust to his surroundings, George feels goosebumps raise across his skin, a sudden cold cascading down his limbs even though it is early summer. 

There is an unresponsive body in a bed, hooked up to what seems to be dozens of machines, breathing for the body, beating the heart for the body, and supporting any life function.

From the foot of the bed, George squints allowing his sensitive eyes to regain function of the sight before him.

He freezes.

_That’s my body._

_That is me._

George screams at the top of his lungs, releasing a mix of a shrill wail and a muffled sob. Yet, despite all frantic movement, _his_ body lies still in the bed, like a statue cast in alabaster, pale and frozen in time.

His irregular breathing rapidly transcends from his apparition into his body. A nurse rushes through the door with a clipboard in hand, recording his vitals with a certain meticulousness before brushing his matted dark hair with a few careful fingers. She works gentle and delicate on his forehead, yet he cannot feel a single sensation. 

He is a line without a hook. Unconnected and detached, useless and very much unconscious to the world.

But he is still very much here. 

The temperature in the room has dropped significantly, the cold setting in like the first snowfall of the season. It is dreary and lonely, so crushingly lonely. George feels his body trembling, hand reaching out in a split second movement, limp in the air as if reaching, reaching across universes and into his own soul. His hand falls midair, suspended by sheer willpower, his long slender fingers pointed outwards in a vain attempt to transcend the nothingness he resides in. 

He retracts his hand from his sight until it drifts by his side, unmoving. The truth had dawned upon him in a brutal tsunami, the waves crushing him mercilessly leaving no vestiges of hope.

In the cycle of the world, there is no longer any place for him.

“You’re gonna be fine. Just do your best to stay.” George hears the nurse coo at his unresponsive body, as if such superficial encouragement will mitigate the damage of a broken body and a lost soul. She probably tells that to everyone anyways; the world moves on without him.

“Where am I? Please, anyone, help!”

He chokes back a silent sob, the sensation lodged in his throat like he had inhaled ashes and debris amidst a fire. His world is burning before his eyes, the flames licking at every crevice of his body. It feels dull though, like a blunt edge poking at his limbs.

George clutches onto the nurse, who diligently works on reviewing the vitals of the man sharing the bleary room with him. The overhead lights swing over them and leave them blindingly pale and lifeless. Tubes intertwine each body, circling around like a game of chutes and ladders he had played as a child, when he lived his days in idle exploration. 

When he wasn’t on the shore of life or death.

George is left ignored; the nurse continues on with her duties like George had not vainly been tugging and thrashing. Despite his harsh seizing on her arm, she is unfazed and her arm doesn’t budge as if his existence is a mirage.

“Help!” George calls once more, desperate for an explanation as to how he can see his own body half dead in a hospital.

“It’s no use. You’re stuck here.” A man, leaning on the wall in sheer boredom, calls from behind him. The man is almost a head taller than he is, and awkwardly looks at the frantic spectacle George presents.

George whips his head around and his body is overcome with a vertigo, not sure whether to fear the fact that someone _has_ heard him or be grateful that someone _can_ hear him. 

The man looks oddly identical to the one the nurse is tending to currently, with the same tufts of golden hair and the same viridian eyes and the same layout of freckles. Only, without the wretched tubes and machines attached to every crevice of his body.

_This cannot be real._

“Who are you?” George says apprehensively, raising his palms in defense and denial. “How can you see me?”

“They call us vegetables.” The man says humorously, green eyes (George assumes) sparkling. George raises an eyebrow tentatively. “But you can call me Dream.”

“You’ve got an odd name. What kind of name is Dream?”

Dream glances over at the clipboard with a sweep of his eye, which doesn’t seem as impaired as George’s despite them being in identical situations. 

“What kind of name is George?”

“I don’t know, ask my mother.”

“You can ask my mother too.” Dream grins. “Except they won’t be able to hear us. It’s painful really, not being able to reach out to the ones you love.”

“Are we dead? Or, are we alive?” George presses, the unanswered questions in his head leaving a somewhat headache throbbing in his skull.

“We’re a cross between the living and the dead. Kinda like in a limbo.” Dream supplies, frowning as if he’d been reminded of such an awful circumstance and he stands up against the wall straighter. 

“So are we ghosts?” George questions once more, clearly wanting a definitive answer. He tests the theory and begins to walk forward into the wall.

_If I were transparent and a ghost, I’d be able to flow right through._

He treads lightly forward, sure that something is bound to happen. The only response he gets is a solid bang to his forehead and a reddening spot on his head, like when he had first rode his bike at six and crashed his head into the pavement of the sidewalk.

Dream wheezes audibly, body doubling over leaving creases in his shirt, as he slides down the wall to sit on the cold, hard ground. “What are you doing, you idiot?”

George blushes unexpectedly, embarrassed. “I’m just trying to see if we’re ghosts. Like the ones from Halloween and shit.”

“I think I would’ve already been doing that if it were possible.” Dream wheezes once more, resembling something of a tea kettle and deflating balloon. 

“So what can and can’t we do?”

“Well, we can’t sleep. We can’t eat. We can’t feel the hot or the cold. It kinda sucks.”

“How should I know to believe you?”

“Believe me I’ve been here long enough already.” Dream grins, the smile spanning his face from ear to ear and eyes glistening in a quite peculiar color, almost as if they were golden.

George seats himself next to Dream. 

He might as well make company with the only one he can see. 

Dream laughs once more, the sound ringing and echoing in George’s ears. “It’s our tiny bubble between life and death.”

-

Less than an hour later, George’s parents and his sister file into the room, sobbing wretchedly into already soaked tissues. Underneath his sister’s arms is his chess set, held delicately and carefully as to not damage the fragile wooden finish.

His parents seat themselves in the visitor chairs and his sister places the chess set on the windowsill between his and Dream’s beds. 

“When you wake up, play with me alright?” His sister asks tearily, only to emit an empty response.

From the corner, his parents sob, holding his lifeless hand. George lifts his own hand, reaching out as if to squeeze his mother’s and reassure them that he would be fine, that he would live.

His stomach opens into an infinite pit to the void, and his head turns away from the scene so swiftly that it gives him whiplash and a mild headache. 

The world is cruel and terrible. 

Instinctively, George turns his head to Dream’s shoulder and shields his eyes from the agonizing sight, unable to bear the pain. His body is numb, but his mind is aching.

Dream stills and allows George to rest his closed eyes on his cotton shirt, his breath hot and leaving a tingling sensation on his skin. 

“Do you want to leave?” Dream asks hesitantly as George’s breath slows down considerably, enough for Dream to deduce that he had calmed down the raging storm inside of him.

George nods into his shoulder and closes his palm in Dream’s so that he is able to be lifted up.

Without further hesitation, Dream steps out the room, as if his spirit were not even tethered to his body. As if they exist as separate entities.

Dream is free.

Curious, George follows suit, abandoning his weeping family in the corner that hush words of encouragement, away from the constant beeps of his machines that live for him. 

An invisible force pulls him backwards, rendering him unable to leave the room despite his constant thrashing and tugging to leave. It is as if a string between his body and his soul had been pulled taut, the cord tethering him to the bleak and desolate room.

“Why can’t I leave?” George asks incredulously at an awaiting Dream from across the door frame. 

“I think you have to let yourself accept you are dying,” Dream shrugs. “I guess you are anchored to your body and your soul refuses to leave.”

“I lost hope a while ago.” Dream admits, as he enters the room once more.

  
  


By sunset, when visiting hours come to a close, George’s family leaves and he is left alone with Dream once more in the darkening room. 

His first night in the ward is approaching.

He trembles.

Dream reaches him and pulls him out of the depths of his darkening mind.

“Come here. Let’s play some chess.”

They play a series of games, the pieces moving definitively in the sixty-four square tiles until they emerge with a stalemate and the same number of wins and loses.

And, in the morning, as the sun rises, George takes his first step out of the ward. The sun rises behind them in its constant cycle of disappearance and reemergence, illuminating their bodies in a healthy orange glow. 

As he walks out the ward, Dream laughs excitedly and George sighs a breath of relief. Mere seconds after he emerged from his room, Dream clutches his wrist and takes him on a journey through the hallways, and into the unknown.

It’s slightly wistful, walking out of the ward, but a weight has been lifted off his chest.

He is free.

-

They sit, playing another round of chess, exchanging their secrets in their little bubble of the world.

“I’m colorblind.” George tells Dream, as he moves his pawn forward.

“I have four siblings.” Dream divulges to George as he moves his bishop diagonally across the board.

Small secrets, yet so big to them in their petite space that flows through the shores of life and death, as if they were on an ocean wave, swaying between both sides. They spill facts, desires, and memories towards one another, as interest clouds both of their eyes.

George learns that Dream’s eyes are in fact green, and so green they look golden to his eyes.

The sound of footsteps approach their room and the chess set freezes indefinitely as they become unable to move the pieces in a human presence.

“He’s been doing worse now.” They hear the doctor admit to Dream’s family shortly. “There’s been little improvement after these few weeks. At this rate, his chances of survival are slim.”

Dream’s mother stumbles in the room and clutches his lifeless hand sobbing in the most heart-wrenching manner, head bent down, eyes obscured, and body wracking in the most cathartic sobs.

“Please, you have to stay. For us. You can do it. You’ve won so many battles in your life and this is no less.” His mother voices out, clutching his hand tightly as if her lifespan could be transferred over to her sons. It’s a truly selfless but futile attempt. 

Because, no matter what, Dream cannot escape this nightmare.

Dream’s breath hitches, heart seizing in a whirlpool of anguish; he recalls when he was a young boy of nine, fearful yet optimistic about the world, and he had rode his skateboard down a steep incline and straight into a ditch. When he had emerged, his mother had soothed him, fixed his wounds, and told him to give it another try, one that turned out successful. He recalls the late summer hurricanes that shook his house to the core, yet his mother had stayed with him as the winds wracked the walls, reassuring they would be fine. 

Despite circumstance, his mother had held him through it all, only this time he is unreachable. 

And this time, he cannot repay the favor. 

His sister is next, eyes brimming in tears, standing next to his mother reassuringly despite her own sorrow and regrets. The droplets flow down her cheek leaving a fresh streak of moisture. 

“I haven’t forgiven you yet for almost crashing us into the wall. You gotta come back so I can. Hang in there, okay?”

Last is Dream’s father, who stands still in the corner as if he were an oak tree that had withstood rain, thunder, and tornadoes. Resting in the crook of his arm and his hand is a football, which he places carefully on the windowsill between the bed of his and George’s.

“Play with me when you get back alright. Rest while you can because you’re going to be playing like never before.”

The football sits there, a testament to their family commitment, and Dream whisks his gaze to a particular interest to the wall.

“You okay?” George asks, his voice cracking slightly, noting Dream’s trembling body and his rapidly ragged breathing. Dream’s mannerisms are too inconsistent for him to be acknowledged as fine, George knows.

“I need a breather.” Dream tells George, voice hoarse and raw like he’d been screaming for eons without end.

“Do you want me to come?” George asks hesitantly, careful to not overstep any boundaries of the deeply intimate moment. He knows the familiar loneliness and tentatively offers his company.

“Yeah. I don’t want to be alone.” 

They walk along the all too familiar corridors so blindingly bland and stale, the white of the walls so despicable.

He doesn’t know where Dream is going, and he doesn’t care.

George remembers the late night he had had with his sister once, when they had took an impulsive road trip with nothing but a wallet and a few snacks on hand. Despite getting lost with a quarter gallon of gas left in the tank and absolutely no service, they had got off in the middle of an abandoned road and ran to the side of the sea and basked in the moonlight, shoes off and carefree. They ran along the oceanside until dawn, the car parked haphazardly on the dilapidated concrete, their phones and worries forgotten. 

It was always about people he was with.

And, anywhere with Dream is bound to be less lonely.

Somewhere along the way, they pass pediatric oncology units and the NICU and find themselves in the maternity ward with the wails of newborns so loud they could be classified as sirens. Strangely, it is comforting; there is no empty silence.

It’s the gracious sound of life. 

As their souls decay and begin to fade, more will emerge into existence. It’s a cycle, a cruel cycle, but it is the world.

They happen to chance on a couple, eyes closed in a prayer, tears welling up in their eyes, holding on to each other for dear life. Clearly, they have stumbled across a particularly intimate moment, a painful, heartbreaking one. Their newborn is turning into a deep shade of purple, eyes closed and unbreathing, pressed against the mother’s chest tightly, as if to not let the soul escape.

Tears are crinkling in the corners of Dream’s eyes as well, unshed, but they glisten in the sharp hospital lights. They stand in the arch of the doorframe, praying for a miracle to pass over for the couple. Loss is not kind, George decides.

“I hate it. I don’t want my family to mourn me after I die.”

George stares at him, straightforward as he always is with his simple, simple words. “Then don’t die.”

Before Dream can reply with another one of his remarks, George treads over to the couple (in a very disruptive way, might he add, but his transparency decreases the chances of intrusion) and slowly he begins to lift his gentle, frail hand over the newborn’s head. He tentatively ghosts his hand over the child’s head as if it were an attempt to transfer a part of his soul over. There is a chance at life, George thinks. 

A chance to not disappoint like he did.

He sets his cold palm atop the newborn’s head and rubs his thumb soothingly. As if by a miracle, the child lets out a shrill wail and gasps for the cold air, the purple slowly being replaced by a healthy red.

The relief of a seemingly endless journey between life and death is displayed right in front of their eyes; its first breath of someone coming to life, the same one George longs for.

“We should go now.” George says, indeed already retreating, with a discreet smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He pulls on Dream’s shirt playfully, the cotton spilling into his hands like liquid. 

Dream gapes incredulously at George, completely baffled by the sequence of events that had followed, but he nonetheless allows himself to be heaved back to their shared room.

“Whatttttt? How did you do that?!” Dream chuckles, his shirt fisted in George’s hand that will undoubtedly leave creases and wrinkles. “Lead me the way then, Mr. I bring people back to life.”

“Shut up.” George rolls his eyes and throws a small stab, palm facing upwards and the side of his fingers shaped firmly, to Dream’s hip.

“You should try that trick out with me and you!” Dream beams, forgetting his misery with his unshed tears dissipating and replaced with laughter.

They slip into an elevator with difficulty and find themselves traveling downwards, further and further away from their bodies.

Further from the beeps. Further from their lives. 

It’s a testament that they are dying.

The lobby is particularly empty today and the air conditioning roars greatly, providing cool air amidst the midsummer madness. The heat. Not that they can feel it, though.

Dream settles them in front of a piano and spies at his surroundings. A janitor is across the lobby, mopping the floors, and a security guard stands at the door, looking at his phone.

Carefully, they sink into the battered leather chair together, timeworn and used by many patients.

“I don’t know how to play.” George tells him, confused.

Dream smiles. “I’m going to teach you.”

They play through butchered songs of _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_ and _Ode to Joy_ as Dream guides George’s fingers across the keys. 

“This key is C.” Dream says, taking George’s finger and poking at it experimentally. “This one is D”

Dream is patient, and a wonderful teacher, George finds. Even when he had given up shortly and dropped his head on the keys in a sound of discord and garbled notes, Dream had picked his head and hands up lightly and guided him through the keys, through the notes. 

They play through mediocre adaptations of _Minuet No. 2_ and _Gavotte in D Major_ until George is well enough to play the notes on his own, reaching into the corners of his heart.

They had woven their time and patience within the keys.

And, any song they produce sounds like the harmony of a fresh spring.

-

“Where do you think we go after we die?” Dream asks hypothetically. They sit in front of the chess set, engaging in a very languished game, almost a week later. Musical sheets left by Dream’s sister sit on their windowsill as well, as if she had heard the calling, the desire to play. George picks out a peculiar one and clings onto the sheet music, memorizing the score into the depths of his mind. 

The sky darkens considerably behind them and the lights become even more potent in contrast to the cloudy skies. 

George moves his knight forward, pressing into Dream’s territory. Despite having played the same game without end, he never finds himself bored.

“Maybe like a gate of truth? Or like, we just lose consciousness and it’s an eternal sleep?” George answers as Dream places his rook down in a solid clack on the wood. “Whatever it is like, I’m hoping we don’t see it soon.”

“I imagine it to be a kind of paradise,” Dream admits, optimism flowing out of his words. “There could be a gate of truth there too! Maybe when it opens I’ll find my family and you waiting on the other side.”

“I’m hoping some part of it is sleep. I’m tired of being awake, even if my body isn’t.”

“Probably wouldn’t be able to wake you up if it were sleep. You’d make the whole thing sleep.” Dream laughs as he sets his queen down. 

“Checkmate.” He shouts, throwing his arms up in the air as George rolls his eyes.

A large crack of thunder followed by the pouring rain interrupts their conversation and diverts their attention to the droplets splattering across their window.

The swelling song of the cicadas dies down as the symphony of the rain pounding the pavement and glass windows overwhelms all noise. 

Of all the in-constants in their lives, the periodic deafening beeps, the ones supporting their livelihood, are the only constant. Yet, in the torrent of rain, it is drowned out. 

It’s the first rain of the summer. Harsh, but lovely. It’s the relaxation of a time-worn repressed sky.

The chess pieces remain untouched and unmoved in the corner, with Dream’s checkmate flaunting ostentatiously in the room. 

“Let me take you on a journey,” Dream says, eyes sparkling in the foliage of the spring, in the seafoam of the ocean, in the same green of when they first met. It’s the familiar constant that George rests his faith on and hopes to drown in for all of eternity.

Dream extends a hand out tentatively, awaiting George’s palm to rest atop his. Without hesitation, George follows along, a smile bridging his face, from one lightly dusted pink cheek to another. Dream laughs in his body-wracking wheeze, the abhorrent deflating balloon sound, and slowly encloses his hand around George’s in a firm grasp. Their hands are interlocked, threatening to never release the warmth of both palms, the softness of their skin, and the delicateness of their fingers. 

Even if they were to fade away in this cycle of the world, they would hold each other through it all.

They slip through the open door with ease, hand in hand, leaving their unresponsive bodies without hesitation and not once looking back. Dream leads them down the corridor, the darkening sky contrasting the bright white lights of the hospital harshly. Suddenly, as if on impulse, Dream breaks into a light jog, with George trailing behind him, his body hauled with Dream’s burst of energy.

“Dream!”

He giggles, letting his hand and heart be led by the man in front of him. Their laughter glistens like the clink of champagne glasses, private for themselves, existing in their own bubble between life and death. And even as uncoordinated and disorganized as their escapade might be, they never let go of each other. 

Unexpectedly, Dream stops their short-lived adventure in front of a heavy metal door, where the brewing storm outside is much less evident from the sheltered space. They stand in excitement with their fingers laced, hearts racing, and lungs retracting and expanding vigorously from the breathtaking run as if it were testament to their existence on earth. 

It’s as if he had returned to the land of the living again. 

He feels alive.

Dream makes him feel alive.

Moments later, as if on chance, a nurse enters from behind the large metal door, opening it wide enough for them to pass. Once again, they are moving in harmony, slipping through the door by a narrow margin together. 

It’s a staircase, hollow and empty, the lights yellowed in the color of a warm sunrise. Their footsteps echo in unison with every step they take and every foot they plant forward. Dream leads them up the stairs by twos, in a forced haste and anticipation for something great. 

“Where are we going?” George asks, his smiling seeping into his voice in a very sweet chuckle.

“You’ll see,” Dream manages to breathe out.

By the looks of the lack of steps leading them upwards, they halt at the top of a staircase and in front of another large metal door. Without anyone around, Dream pushes the door with concentrated force so that they can both squeeze through into the thin crack he produces.

All at once, they are rushed with the saturated warm air and the bleak downpour of the rain, leaving them soaked instantaneously.

They are on the hospital roof, under the gray skies and flood of water. 

“Why are we here?” George questions hesitantly, his hair sticking to his forehead with a pathetic wetness. “We’re getting soaked.”

“I know,” Dream responds, fluttering his eyes shut, tilting his face upwards to the sky, and letting the rain flow down the crease of his nose. As if he had regained his senses, Dream opens his eyes, the green returning into view, and looks back at George with a tender smile plastered across his lips. “It’s nice isn’t it? We’re free.”

_Free._

The sweltering skies had considerably cooled long into the storm and what he would once consider to be terrible weather is rendered into a safe haven of sorts. Indeed, they are free, away from the countless sounds of pain and torture that reverberate through the empty corridors, away from all the nurses and doctors that throw statistics about their projected chances of survival at their loved ones, away from their sickening dying bodies.

“Yeah.”

Dream rubs his thumb in slow circles around George’s clasped hand and lets go slowly, allowing his hand to slide out delicately until they stand individually once more. Instinctively, George reaches forward with his hand, which now feels far too empty and cold without the weight of another, but he soon lets it fall back to his side.

Dream treads to the edge of the roof, feet splashing in the collecting water, and stands on the cobblestone ledge despite his fear of heights. They are properly soaked like they had recently emerged from the depths of a pool, but George doesn’t mind.

It makes him feel human. 

From the edge of the rooftop, Dream swivels around, hair in thick clumps dripping with rain, and faces George with a large grin that could’ve reached from his heart to George’s.

“Come here.”

George obeys apprehensively, careful not to slip on the swamp like concrete. Dream waits on the other side of the roof, arms extended endearingly. By the time George is close enough to him, Dream pulls George up with one quick sweep of his arm so that they stand side by side, head touching shoulder, skin on skin. Suspended almost ten stories up, they look down at the dizzying sight below. And, as always, the world moves on with them; people run into their cars, raise their umbrellas, and hold handfuls of flowers and “get well soon” balloons in good-natured obligations.

“There’s so much we will miss out on if we die.” Dream huffs out indignantly, amidst the unrelenting storm. A flash of lightning descends upon them, as if it were an attestation to Dream’s words. “Why don’t we let go of our regrets here?”

Dream passes him a slight grin and he bends his elbows, cups his fingers, and brings his hands to his mouth as if he were calling out to the farthest corners of the earth.

“I should’ve watched one more football game with my family!” Dream screams at the top of his lungs, his voice growing stronger as it carries through the storm. The sky rumbles heavily, as if it heard Dream’s shout through the wretched plane of their existence.

George smiles as he raises his hands to sit triangularly over his mouth, imitating the same movement Dream had done seconds ago.

“I wish I’d tried on color blindness glasses!”

“Seriously, George?” Dream wheezes amidst their serious confessions. George playfully nudges him in the shoulder and rolls his eyes.

“Just go!”

“Okay, okay!” Dream reassures the ever reddening George. “I should’ve cuddled with Patches more and held her while I had the chance!”

George sympathetically passes a soft tap to Dream’s shoulder, in understanding of the absence of his own cat and dog, which he loved dearly and would’ve pet at any given time. 

“I wish I’d learned how to drive!”

“I should’ve written some books!”

“I wish I’d hung out with my friends more!”

The screams tore through his throat mercilessly, voicing all the things he should’ve done when he was alive, as the lightning split the sky. _If this is emotional relief,_ George thinks _, so be it._

Their words slip off their tongues easily and their shouts are carried off into refreshing summer rain. It is an eternal release from their souls, unshackling them from their pent up guilt. Every minuscule frustration is alleviated in mere minutes; they shout of deep regrets and superficial desires ( _I should’ve let my sister have that last slice of cake!_ Dream mournfully admits). 

He feels whole again, the broken halves carefully pieced together by Dream. 

The rain starts to slow into a light drizzle and the clouds begin to part for the sun. After all, such heavy rain was not made to last. Dream turns to George after they have gone silent with no more remorses left to spill into the sky. A bittersweet smile masks his face entirely and his eyes are glassy, insinuating the verge of tears.

“When I die, I don’t want to be leaving with the desire to live. I want to die knowing my life was well lived.”

“Don’t say that. We aren’t going to die.” George says instead, staring into the dulling green eyes, confident and optimistic with a faith that was previously nonexistent.

He will not let go of the possibility of life. The possibility of doing all that they couldn’t in their spiritless bubble. The possibility of waking up with Dream.

“I know we aren’t,” Dream chuckles, voice cracking in a watery smile. “Because I can’t die with my biggest regret.”

“I can’t die knowing I didn’t spend enough time with you, George.”

-

They frequent the hallways more often than they should, but as always it’s an escape from their dying bodies.

And, in the middle of the nights when Dream is off exploring yet another part of the hospital, George finds himself in front of the piano, practicing and practicing, the keys etched into his mind and his fingers running across them mercilessly. 

If weeks have passed and they haven’t woken up yet, chances are slim for his survival, and even more slim for Dream. And, George does not want to be reminded of that. 

_Come with me,_ George recalls. It’s a favorite phrase of Dream’s as they embark on another journey, away from the bleak, depressing room. Away from the machines, the beeps, the numbers, and the suffocating air. 

They wander around the halls aimlessly, always in constant motion but never feeling fatigue. There are people visiting, nurses talking, doctors moving, and it seems all too real to George. _Sorry!_ He had said to a woman he had bumped into, forgetting his non-existence in the world. The woman had moved right along unfazed and he had been left standing there with Dream’s distinct wheeze overcrowding all other noise. _You idiot!_ Dream had said to him, prompting him a reddening face and heated cheeks. 

This time, they stop in front of a small single patient room. The windows are closed, shutting the summer air outside indefinitely. Flowers and balloons litter the room, making it almost claustrophobic to enter. The bed is empty, all the machines are unhooked, and scattered tubes and wires are splayed out. George’s blood runs cold. There is a child, who could be no older than thirteen, and her mother, both sobbing wretchedly before the empty bed. 

“I miss him!” The child cries out as the mother weeps even heavier, the tissue unable to catch all the teardrops. “I should’ve done more with him.”

George’s heart stops. 

If that’s what it is going to be like to lose Dream, he doesn’t ever want to let go.

“Hey look,” Dream whispers, attracting George’s attention with ease. He lightly taps the balloons and runs his fingers through the flowers, producing a heavy rustle and gust of wind despite the closed window. It’s a soft wind billowing through the heavy atmosphere, allowing peace to carpet the four of them. 

“Mom, look up!” The child breathes out in between sobs. The mother raises her head, tears flowing down her cheeks. They witness the beautiful scene in front of them, the swaying of the homages to their loved one, and Dream coordinates it all as if he were a conductor of a large ensemble. As if it were a grand finale to a series of outstanding performances.

If George were to close his eyes, he is certain this would feel like running in a golden meadow, free and alive with the sun setting, with Dream. 

“He hasn’t left us yet!” The child says, smiling as more tears pool out of her eyes. “Dad, I love you!” She calls out, hugging her mother tightly. Both of them let out watery smiles despite all the heartache and pain they’ve endured.

_Brave_ , George thinks.

“Why did you do that?” George asks when they are back out in the hallway, lending some graceful privacy to the mourning family.

“She reminded me of my sister. I think my sister would’ve liked it too, if that happened to me.”

“ _If._ ” George reminds him. “It’s not.”

_Brave._

The words flow out in the same manner as he had repeated hundred of times, practiced and hopeful. Deep down, gnawing at the corner of his stomach, he knows if more time passes, there will not be an “if.” The thought itself threatens to open up a bottomless pit in his stomach, an inescapable void of grief. But he will stay optimistic for Dream. Always for Dream.

“That was beautiful.” George says instead, forcing his thoughts away, focusing his attention on Dream’s wide grin. “Where to next?”

“Somewhere special. Somewhere for you.”

  
  
  
  


As the elevator descends to the first floor, Dream clutches George’s hand tightly, his grip firm yet soft and perfectly molded into the shape of his hand.

The piano sits in the corner of the lobby as always, this time with a child pounding the keys in a very amateur yet lovely _Fur Elise._

They pause in front of a set of open glass doors that leaves the sticky summer air in opposition to the air-conditioned hospital. Beyond the doors are foliage the color of Dream’s eyes and a sweet floral scent.

He hasn’t seen nature since weeks ago, before his encounter with the gate between life and death. Not this up close, at least. There is longing to return out there, to return to life. 

Dream inhales a deep breath and their intertwined fingers grasp at each other tighter. Slowly, he presses a foot forward, George’s body following after his willfully. He steps a foot onto the grass as their hands squeeze together apprehensively. Dream exhales; no repercussions are met with them now. He lifts his other foot forward, until both stand in the grass, outside the hospital. George follows suit slowly. They stand next to each other, under the sun, hand in hand, both feet planted in the soft soil of the earth.

George lets out his bated breath and Dream does too, as they move to hold each other in an endearing hug. He rests his head on Dream’s shoulder in a sigh of relief, inhaling the scent of vanilla and touching the warm cotton shirt, and Dream wraps his arms around George’s figure warm and invitingly. He wants to stay like this forever.

They had made it out, with no invisible force dragging them inwards. Upon their first attempt, they had emerged with no physical limitations like he had experienced his first night. No repercussions. They are whole and under the warm sun, together and laughing.

They are no longer tethered to the bleak life of the hospital.

It means they are free. 

And, it means they’re both dying.

Nonetheless, they run, the laughter ringing in their ears blissfully. It’s as if they are children again, like when George had first learned how to ride a bike or when Dream had thrown his first basketball.

“Come here, George!” Dream yells, the joy swelling and seeping into his voice. It drips like honey down his words, like melted sugar. Like true happiness.

Dream breaks out into a sprint and chases George mercilessly as George desperately runs, screaming from the top of his lungs excitedly. Even if someone were to hear them, George wouldn’t care. His run is short-lived as it mingles with the burning laughter and not much later Dream catches up and tackles him, sending their bodies flying.

They land into a heap on the ground, laughter still wracking their bodies and the breathlessness leaving traces of sweat and their lungs heaving. Their chests rise and fall on their own accords as if they were alive. 

As they regain their breath, Dream climbs off of him, lets go of his wrists gently, and he falls down in a heavy thud next to George. George turns over to peer at Dream, whose face is trained into the atmosphere above them intently, eyes crinkling and mouth smiling at the vast scene outstretched in front of them. 

“Before you came, I looked down here and always wanted to come here.” Dream breathes. “The sky is so blue.” 

Despite not being able to feel temperature, George feels a warm tingling sensation course through his veins and diffuse throughout his body. They lay there together, basking in the midday sun, the warmth absorbing their bodies almost completely. Like water poured on sand, a peculiar feeling trickles from George’s heart and reaches the farthest corners of his limbs, swallowing his body whole. It’s like liquid fire, rejuvenating and revitalizing him. One of their hands are laced together as the other reaches towards the cloudless sky and clasps the sun.

‘I’ll give you the sun.” Dream giggles, bringing his hand down in a fist as if he were holding the golden orb, and he presses his palm against George’s cheek. 

The sensation it leaves is burning and feels of unbridled infatuation. He leans into the touch and smiles, shifting Dream’s hand slightly with the upturn of his lips. With great care, George turns over to see Dream’s eyes sparkling viridian, pure emeralds in the sapphire skies. It looks considerably less yellow than the green he’s accustomed to; with Dream, it’s always bound to be different.

Dream pushes himself up momentarily and lets go of George’s hand regretfully.

“Stay here, alright?”

George nods his head in understanding as Dream treads away in a light jog and rounds the corner of the hospital wall. He sits up and swivels his head around, finally gaining some sense as to where they truly are. There is a plaque considerably far away, planted near roses and lavenders of sorts. George is curious and he stands up in the grass and cranes his neck.

_Honoring the ones we have lost and could not save. Dedicated to the brave._

Poppies, dandelions, lilies, sunflowers, and forget-me-nots swarm the land before him in an astonishing array of colors (not that he can particularly see all of them) and shapes and sizes. The summer lives up to its name as it brings life to the otherwise empty piece of land.

It’s a garden, George realizes. 

As if on cue, Dream rounds the corner back to where George is, running rather quickly. His eyes sparkle in the sunlight and beads of sweat form on his forehead. His arms are held behind his back and his mouth is curled into the widest smile. 

He stops in front of George, arm reaching out, presenting a handful of flowers to him.

Marigolds.

“For you.” Dream grins, the flower stems clutched delicately in the palm of his hand and his fingers careful not to crush the petals. 

“They are the flower of the sun.” Dream recites, as if he had read a book about flowers and regurgitated the information in a very fond show of intimacy. “I’m giving you the sun.”

“I can’t see the color!” George laughs, adoration brimming his body, forcing his lungs to breathe. Forcing his heart to beat. Forcing him to live. Indeed the red accents blend all too well with the yellow hues. “It’s beautiful though, thank you.”

George reaches out and takes them from Dream’s hand delicately, thumbing the petals, and heart filled with tenderness.

“Supposedly, they have powers to resurrect.” Dream adds on, looking at George’s pink tinted cheeks with laughter on the edge of his voice. “So, I’m hoping for you.”

George looks up and he stops admiring the flowers. Carefully, he takes his slender fingers and plucks the fullest flower from the handful and passes it to Dream, who blushes profusely at the prospect.

“I’m hoping for you too.”

-

By nighttime, they leave the garden behind, before the doors close and shut them out indefinitely, with all their woes and worries. The lobby is almost empty, the hospital lights dim, and the late night visitors depart from a day of grieving and return back to their comfortable houses. The piano in the lobby is available for them to use once more as the security guard positions himself outside for a breath of fresh air.

Dream sits himself on the bench below the piano and pats the seat next to him invitingly, so that they sit together, hands poised on the ivory keys. 

Once more, Dream guides him in a display of rapidly moving fingers, instructing him which keys to press accordingly through the semitones and melodies. 

The music flows out, for them privately, and it’s a beautiful sound to their ears, drowning out all else. 

They practice together, hands moving in tandem and revolving around each other, picking each other up through the score and complementing each other’s chords. If compared with Dream’s laughter, this sound would come in a close second.

The marigolds sit in their pockets safely, unpressed and unwrinkled as if they were handled with painstaking care. 

“You gave me a gift today, so now it’s my turn.” George calls out suddenly above the sound of the music they produce, as if he had remembered the marigolds in his pocket, prompting the both of them to stop abruptly. The last of their notes echo in the large lobby and dissipate into the humidity, leaving them in a temporary silence.

“What?” Dream questions, eyebrows crinkling together in confusion. “You gave me a flower today too; that was enough and I love it.”

“You picked it first.” George supplies. “This gift comes from me.”

Dream leans on the side of the polished black piano, cheek in hand, so that he faces George, amusement lighting up his eyes. He removes his hand from the array of black and white keys and rests his other hand under his elbow, half expecting some mediocre performance and the other half incredulous at what the possible gift could be.

George positions his fingers on the keys and begins rapidly moving his fingers through the keys, as if he were weaving threads of gold and counting grains of sand through an hourglass. The music flows out in a surprisingly beautiful composition as his long fingers disappear and reappear so quickly they come and go in a fleet of dexterous movement. George recalls how delicate Dream had been with the flowers and slowly he releases his solid hold on the keys and allows his fingers to glide gracefully. He’s concentrated beyond belief, not even batting an eye to Dream, and focused on the composition in front of him, pouring his heart and soul into the music he had not known for long.

It carries its way into Dream’s ear like a lullaby floating and descending in the most loving way. Dream’s eyes widen.

_Moonlight Sonata, 3rd Movement._

George terminates his show not even halfway through the song and he looks up sheepishly. 

“Sorry, I didn’t learn how to play the rest. It’s quite hard.”

Dream stares disbelievingly, mouth agape and eyes widening. It almost looks comical, George thinks, like one of those cartoons with a character whose jaw slams to the ground pathetically.

“Where did you learn that?” Dream hushes out, attempting to not break the fragile atmosphere the music had rested on.

“I practiced. A lot.” George says shyly, hands fidgeting. “You gave me the sun.”

George looks up into Dream’s eyes, both enamored with each other beyond the extent of the earth.

“So I’ll give you the moon.”

-

There are many days when Dream returns to their desolate room with handfuls of marigolds plucked carefully in his hands. He sets them on the windowsill between their beds, between their decaying bodies.

“It’s a prayer for our resurrection.” Dream tells George upon his laughter at the growing collection of flowers with the earliest ones slowly decomposing. The only ones that sit within a glass of water are the ones they had first exchanged, somewhat wilting, but very much alive. 

“Won’t they notice the missing flowers?” George asks, laughing breathlessly, “Poor flowers are going to us instead of the ones they’re honoring.”

“We better take these flowers or else we’re going to become one of the ones they’re honoring.” Dream corrects George, ruffling George’s hair messily. “What are you reading?”

George peers up from where he is seated in the visitor chair comfortably, knees up and feet on the chair. The incessant beeps and machines have ceased to bother them and even affect their life; they have relied on each other in a sort of mutual trust.

“I’m just memorizing the score for _Moonlight Sonata_. So I can play it perfectly.” 

“Well hopefully you’re not going to do that all day,” Dream patronizes jokingly. “I’m going to be taking you somewhere tonight.”

They exist there in the comfortable silence as George looks up and shakes his head before returning to the score sheet. Already, as if Dream can read him, he takes it as an acceptance. He walks over to the football left by his father and twirls it in his hands experimentally. The football falls flat on the floor as the door to their room opens.

“There it goes again, always falling off the windowsill.” The nurse huffs out upon the thud of the football landing on the floor. She picks it up haphazardly and places it back on the windowsill before doing her daily check of their vitals.

From beyond the open door, Dream’s family stands, the youngest one on his tiptoes and the others huddled together, staring at Dream’s body with wide eyes and burgeoning tears. 

Dream takes his hand suddenly and drags George out of the room without hesitation, the score sheet left on the chair. Both of them walk out empty handed.

“What’s the matter?” George inquires, lips turning into a frown.

Dream smiles despite the family he has left behind, sobbing behind him. 

“I’ll take you somewhere now.”

They exit the lobby once more where the piano they had played together still stands, this time played by an elderly man with oxygen tubes connected up to large canisters on a wheelchair. 

_River Flows In You_ encompasses all sounds of the lobby as they enter once more into the garden, forgetting the sorrows and leaving their regrets behind. The song truly lives up to its name, the melody cascading upon their ears in a delightful waterfall of notes.

As always, Dream plucks him more marigolds, although this time it is a single one. 

“There’s no more left.” Dream laughs, “We took them all! We’re a bunch of greedy young adults, huh?”

George shakes his head. “No, you take it.”

“Accept my gift!” Dream pouts, his lower lip hanging out in an awfully pitiful manner. George recalls when he and his sister had fought for their chance to try a sip of alcohol and his sister had thrown him a pleading face. He had let go of the bottle immediately and let her have her way grudgingly. George has always been one to give in, and it’s no different with Dream. 

Perhaps he would let Dream have every inch of his body and every corner and part of his soul if he so desired it.

He pockets the flower gratefully as they sit in the grass, longingly looking at the children who have seemed to have entered the garden and engaged in a game of tag. Longingly looking at life. George rests his head on Dream’s shoulder, overwhelmed suddenly at their projected chances of survival and their visiting families and whatnot. He runs his fingers through the air, practicing _Moonlight Sonata_ on an invisible arrangement of keys, the pads of his fingers dancing through the air. Dream imitates his previous show of intimacy and rests his head on George’s so that they are molded together in the sun, watching the children play around them happily. 

The sun begins to set much later, indicating the arriving evening. The children are slowly scooped up by their loving mothers and fathers, in a very warm and real touch. As the sky begins to darken lightly and the sun retreats over the horizon in a sea of reds, yellows, and pinks, the sky begins to purple. Slowly, Dream rises from their comfortable seating position and lends a hand to pull George up too. They walk into the lobby again, another day having passed in vain.

They head up the elevator and George prepares to exit at their floor, only to find that Dream reaches for his hand and holds him back lightly. They ride up the elevator to the highest floor it can go, before they disembark and leave to the same flight of stairs they were at weeks ago. There is nobody around and this time, George is the one to open it for them, with all his bodily might pushing against the heavy metal.

By the time they reach the rooftop, the sun has already parted with its goodbyes and the stars hang out in front of them beautifully.

George recalls the last time they were here, the confessions spilling from their souls like silk and relief dawning on them like a blanket being settled in the middle of a brutal winter season. 

“Hey, George.” Dream calls out breathlessly, ripping him from his thoughts.

“I hope one day, George, I can see you under the sun, warm and real.” Dream breathes out, a confession tumbling out of the confines of his heart from the most private and locked vault of secrets.

But it’s not like they hadn’t known. That they loved each other to the farthest ends of the earth that withstood life or death, sun and rain, space and time.

“You know George, you have the gift of life. I remember what you did to that newborn. It’s the universe’s way of telling you to live.” Dream spills out. “I hope we do wake up. I hope we can get out of this awful hospital and explore the world with you. I hope I can take you out on a real date and do all the things we couldn’t before.”

George’s heart seizes. _Is this a goodbye? Is this a confession? What is this?_

The marigold in his pocket suddenly feels very heavy.

“Let’s wish upon the stars!” Dream says excitedly, his wheezing laugh permeating the atmosphere setting normalcy in on them once more. 

They stand there, holding hands, eyes closed towards the dark sky. They squeeze each other’s hands with a ferocious passion to hold on forever; it's a slight sensation but it ripples across George’s body leaving him very warm.

George is first to open his eyes, his wish already cast into the dark sky, stamped there with his penmanship. Dream follows next. They turn around to face each other, soft eyes looking into another pair of soft eyes, green into brown.

They were always in love, and they had known.

“You bloom.” Dream tells him softly, affection seeping into his tone.

“The cycle of the world may reject us, but it doesn’t matter because you have a rightful place in my cycle. You are my world.”

George moves forward, brown eyes softening, and caresses Dream’s face fondly. 

And his freckles, the freckles that looked like constellations, that he would have rested his dreams on.

George moves slowly, thumbs brushing Dream’s smooth skin and beautiful cheeks and he turns his face so that his lips ghost over the freckles, eyes closed yet he still memorizes the layout of Dream’s face flawlessly. He plants a delicate kiss, which is more of a peck really, to the freckles he so dearly memorized and loves. If he could kiss each one individually, he would. It’s like the sun has risen again, the warmth flooding both their bodies in a collection of flames and heat and the fire of the sun.

With no further hesitation, Dream resumes his movements. With one finger, he tips George’s jaw upwards and with his other hand, he holds George’s waist certain to never let go but bring them closer. George’s palms that feel as if they were forged of fire rest upon his cheeks and bring his height downwards. Their lips meet and connect in a spark of fire, like the ignition of a flint and steel, the fire ignited threatening to burn both of them alive. Their lips singe and sear, the onset of the torrent of emotions threatening to overtake them. It’s a raw kiss, a kiss full of longing. 

They pull apart shortly, looking at each other incredulously before laughing uncontrollably.

They had always known. 

An incorrigible noise escapes George’s throat before he laughs again as Dream pulls him into a tightening hug.

They lay down on the warm concrete of the hospital roof, unaffected by anything around them and focused solely on each other. 

“You give me a reason to stay.” Dream tells him as they tangle their legs together in the most unfitting of places on a hard stone ground they can barely feel. They clutch each other closer with the fear of letting go. “You give me hope.”

Blissfully, they settle on the ground of the roof, underneath the stars, as if it were a bed, sheets warm and pillows soft, instead of solid, unbreakable concrete. And, Dream closes his eyes to which George follows suit, laughing until their throats are sore and lungs are dry. They pretend to sleep, as if it were real, eyes closed and bodies intertwined. It almost feels real.

Dream giggles, and George can hear him perfectly in their solitary space under the sky. It feels warm and the warmth continues growing like it were a blinding white light that mercilessly consumes. He memorizes Dream’s voice from every inflection, from every tone, to every chime of laughter, to every secret chuckle.

And, from his closed eyes, he can hear Dream, his voice like the sweet song of the spring.

“You heal me, George.”

-

George opens his eyes much later when the sunrises beyond the horizon, completing another cycle of the world. His eyes have yet to adjust to the light, which have been closed the whole night in a sleep like trance. He squints at the sun and clutches his arms tighter in a manner meant to shy away from the irritating light.

He wakes up suddenly.

His arms are empty.

Dream is gone.

His world is crashing down on him all at once, like his head is being held under a pool of water and he’s inhaling water for air. His ears are waterlogged and his limbs are heavy.

“Dream!” He calls out frantically into the space around him. “Dream!”

There is no response back, nor even a single hint of laughter. 

He runs around the rooftop frantically, the vast expanse barren and devoid of any signs of life.

“Where are you? Stop playing with me!”

Nothing comes back again, only the sound of his deafening and crushingly lonely echo, the parrot of a voice that is bound to be broken.

_Did he leave?_

_Was that a goodbye?_

“You can’t leave me now!” George shouts once more, tears springing into the corner of his eyes. He will not allow himself to cry, never.

He pushes the door to the hospital roof open aggressively and runs down the stairs, his hands ghosting the railings and legs crumpling as they carry him down the steps far too fast. All the things he couldn’t say, all the things he couldn’t do, if Dream was gone. 

The room to their door is open already, the nurse doing her daily check of his vitals. His eyes rest from his body to the bed over. The bed that Dream lied on.

It is empty.

All at once he feels his body shrinking into a panic, the room, his shirt, far too small. He clutches his chest tightly and coughs out dry air. His lungs seize and his head whirls, rendering him unable to breathe.

And, his machines start beeping loudly, sending the nurse back in a frenzy.

“Stay, you’re going to be fine.” The nurse reassures as she adjusts him, but he’s far too gone to notice.

What happened to waking up together?

What happened to exploring the earth together?

What happened to breaking the cycle?

What happened to going out on little dates and passing kisses?

George’s legs give out under him, sending his knees buckling and legs folding until he is crumbled on the floor or their dreary room they once shared. His breathing is ragged, chest aching in the most agony he’s felt before.

He screams from the top of his lungs; the football is gone and the marigolds on the windowsill decayed and blackened save for the ones in the glass of water.

_We were supposed to get through together!_ George thinks, the thoughts rattling against his skull hollowly, threatening to break his bones from its desired release.

_The marigolds were supposed to resurrect you! You’re such an idiot! Giving them all to me._

Who else was he going to hold and love in the bubble between life and death?

It’s heartbreakingly lonely; no one can see him nor hear him anymore. It’s like when he had first met Dream. 

The chess set is abandoned in the corner, where Dream had left the vestiges of his checkmate, the pieces still and untouched. And the spare visitor chair is stowed away with the lack of Dream’s siblings. 

The chair that held the weight of him and all his grievances. And the score.

_Moonlight Sonata, 3rd Movement._

He was supposed to play it in its entirety to Dream, learn the score by heart just as he had learned Dream’s face.

He was supposed to give Dream the moon.

How could he leave with a tiny crescent and bestow the entire sun, galaxy, and solar system to George?

  
  
  
  


Much later into the day, after George had spent his time staring listlessly into the white wall with a limp body and numb brain, his mother emerges from the door.

“Goodness, George. You’ve got to make it out. We’re all waiting for you.” His mother pleads, brushing his forehead lightly and rubbing his hand.

He looks away, unable to bear more pain. Dream would have whisked him away or distracted him, but this time Dream is not here. And he does not want confrontation. 

George summons his remaining energy and allows himself to embark the elevator, avoiding the weeps of his mother and the far too empty room. 

The lobby is inundated with visitors clutching balloons and flowers, only today the piano is empty, the seat left untaken and open. 

Wearily, he sinks into the seat and begins the opening to _Moonlight Sonata, 3rd Movement_. What comes out instead is a horrific jumble of notes, uncoordinated, clashing, and painful to his ears. 

The love they had once woven into the piano has been replaced by wretched and raw agony.

It’s beginning to darken outside as the sun sets once more, the relentless cruel cycle of what is known as life.

George exits the glass doors and rounds the corner of the hospital where Dream had always appeared from with fistfuls of beautiful marigolds. 

Indeed, there are no more marigolds left.

His pocket.

He reaches his hand in the pocket and produces the last marigold that had been plucked, scent as potent as ever, but with the petals becoming paper thin and brittle.

_You have the gift of life_ , George recalls Dream telling him earnestly. _It’s the universe's way of telling you to live._

He rubs the stem of the marigolds between his thumb and his pointer finger. 

For Dream, he would live.

Even until when he forgets the precise green of Dream’s eyes? Even until when the marigolds in the water become blackened and brittle?

Undoubtedly.

He was given the sun, given the vestiges of hope.

And he’s ready to go.

-

When George wakes up, it is late August and the heat swelters considerably more against his skin. He can feel, breathe, eat, and sleep once more. He is whole and human.

His parents are there by his side, praying sighs of relief and blessings to his life, as his sister comes into view of his sensitive eyes which adjust to the hospital lights. 

“Goddamnit, George. You didn’t have to worry us like that!” His sister cries out to him, before wiping her eyes with her already soggy tissue once more. 

He was lucky, the nurses say. Relatively no hard hit injuries, all his functions intact.

Weirdly enough though, he hadn’t registered anything before or after the coma. And certainly nothing in between. 

When he exits the hospital, the first place he requests is the flower shop, to which his parents and sister raise an eyebrow to. Yet, he is unwavering, insistent that they had reached this location. _Chalk it up to the coma_ , George says decidedly to them.

He spends a great deal of time inside the flower shop, absorbing in all the colors he cannot see and all the different shaped petals. A bin of flowers hangs in the corner, the flower shape vaguely familiar and heart wrenching. He reads the label placed on the bin haphazardly.

Marigolds.

George takes a handful, practically half of the bin, and he moves to the register and pays for them.

And, when he sits once more on the car, nobody questions the handful of red-yellow hued flowers brimming over his palms.

-

Inexplicably, it feels as if some part is always missing, like a puzzle that has been worked on for days only to find that one piece was missing all the time. As if something had been forgotten.

“George, you are alive.” His mother always has to constantly remind him, when he stands like a statue cast in alabaster mid thought or when he blankly stares into the distance.

It leaves George with a nauseous gnawing feeling in his gut that almost forces him to stow away in his room for days at a time and walk around as the hollow shell of someone he used to be.

Without explanation, he frequents the flower shop and always returns with a handful of marigolds, which his sister so graciously waters.

Once, his father had invited him to a chess match, to relive the time before he had fallen into the bubble between life and death and come before the gate of truth. George had bluntly declined and turned away from the chess set without explanation, unable to look at the wooden pieces on the sixty-four square tiles.

He had woken up from dreams, or rather nightmares, paralyzed in cold sweat, with a shade of green, the color of viridan and emeralds, pounding in his skull, demanding to be recognized and remembered. 

Instead, before he could contemplate it, the dreams had left his mind fleetingly, before he could even grab at the remaining wisps, almost like he had a dreamless sleep every night. He had screamed in frustration of coming upon the same color yet not recognizing it and cursed at his poor memory.

“George, I just want to know what’s wrong.” His mother admits to him as they wash the dishes together, the outermost extent of their familial closeness.

“I don’t know.” George answers blandly, the words leaving his lips in a very frustrating manner.

He wants to know what he’s been missing. 

There’s a piano that occupies the corner of the living room, the piano his sister had gave up learning years ago, ancient and dusty from the years. George reminisces fondly of how they used to fight over who would play first, yet ironically it’s practically unused.

He wrenches open the old cover to the keys and coughs when the dust enters his lungs unexpectedly. All the keys are laid out to him in a dizzyingly familiar assortment.

It’s like he had known to play all his life.

George ghosts his hand over the fine ivory keys of the piano and he perches himself on the edge of the battered leather chair with fragile wooden legs. 

He rests his tentative fingers on the polished white keys and closes his eyes, as if an invisible force had dragged him to do so.

From his heart, he pours out a song he has studied and known by heart. From the score to each measure, he knows it all by memory. 

_Moonlight Sonata, 3rd Movement_.

His fingers dance on the keys in an elegant waltz, leaving a light step on the ivory but a resounding note. They tango and rapidly move beyond his control in a controlled, yet desperate movement. 

Distantly, he hears his mother speak with amazement: “Where did you learn to play?”, but instantly it is faded out with the harmony of the music he spills out from his fingertips to his memory.

His heart sings with a lovelorn nostalgia, with anguish, and most of all with regret until the last notes of the score had been played out to perfection.

It’s like the grand finale to a series of performances and subconsciously, he had poured his entire soul into the music.

And, for the first time since he had woken up, tears well at the corner of his eyes.

He’s reaching, reaching out to someone or something that he cannot comprehend.

-

As always, George frequents the flower shop often for his usual order of marigolds.

“You know we could grow our own.” His mother had kindly offered, which he so graciously refused. 

He visits the shop in hopes of the location evoking a response to his empty personality.

The _Moonlight Sonata_ had done him no good, and left him with sleepless nights and an aching heart.

This time, he walks in around mid-October, when all the leaves have fallen from the trees and crush under his feet in a satisfying sound, when all the squirrels dart playfully back into the trees, when the heat has been replaced by a soothing wind.

He turns the corner to the flower shop near the hospital and makes his way back to the bin, which is always politely restocked.

There is a man there this time, examining the marigolds bin. The man stands at an astonishing height when compared next to George, tall and hovering over. Nonetheless they select their flowers in silence.

“Marigolds are beautiful.” The man next to him suddenly speaks. “They are the flower of the sun.”

George looks upwards. Blond tufts of hair. And eyes in a vaguely familiar emerald color.

“I’m Dream.” The man introduces himself.

_What an odd name_ , George thinks.

“I’m George.”

“I don’t know why, but I love them.” Dream continues on, plucking a few from the bin.

“Same.” George replies, the words flowing out of his mouth easily and comfortably for the first time since he woke up. “They’re important and I don’t know why.”

Dream nods and continues picking out a few marigolds, the most vibrant and large ones, before sending him a short wave as he heads off to the register. 

George is still there, thoughtfully thumbing the stems, finding comfort in the flowers surprisingly. As Dream finishes his purchase and prepares to leave, he stops by George and hesitates.

“You like marigolds too, right?” Dream inspects his handful with his cautious green eyes.

He passes George the most vibrant and largest one in his hand with a smile at the corner of his lips courteously.

“For you. I’ll give you the sun.”

There is electricity, a shock that runs through his veins as he accepts the gift. Something sweet lingers and George's heart is throbbing with the feeling of a sweet old love. 

The giving of a marigold, something so simple. stimulates such intense indescribable emotions.

Dream smiles down and leaves promptly, deserting a speechless George with a single marigold in his hand.

Did he feel it too?

The heat of the summer? 

The raw emotion?

George holds the marigold in his hands, thumb rubbing the stem, before looking up at Dream’s retreating body.

His entire body seizes.

He recognizes that form, the same one he had seen from behind, when dragged to unknown places, the same form that had carried his hand to new adventures. It’s slipping from his mind again, but he is grasping, threatening to never let go with an iron grip. 

George hastily shoves the spare marigolds into the bin before running, chasing after the man’s retreating body with such vigor his lungs might burst. 

_I hope we wake up. Then, I could take you on a date._

The sweet, hushed words, meant only for him and private to all else, settle in his mind with clarity, as if he had been shoved into a pool of ice cold water. 

Despite his lack of energy before, George sprints, legs moving in a constant cycle of ups and downs, before he finally manages to catch up with Dream.

He places his warm palm on Dream’s shoulder. Dream turns around, out of breath and heart racing. 

And, his eyes are as green as ever. Green as the foliage of the spring, green as the sea foam of the sea, the green of when they first met.

George's eyes water and his heart feels full.

“You gave me the sun.”

They pull each other in a crushing hug, the memories flooding back in an overwhelmingly beautiful wave, like the calm after a storm. Memories of them on the rooftop, memories of them fondly talking, memories of their infatuation. Through it all, the sweet words whispered of hope, devotion, and pure love. 

But it’s not like they hadn’t known, despite the terribly confusing memory loss and frustrating irritation of constant reaching. That they loved each other to the farthest ends of the earth that withstood life or death, sun and rain, space and time.

Indeed, it has transcended all the boundaries tearing them apart. 

They’ll never let go, they decide, not when they are in front of each other once more. Alive, whole, and warm, in the same cycle of the world. 

_You heal me,_ Dream had said once to him. 

“So I'll give you the moon.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you made it this far, thank you so much for reading!
> 
> the end is left for you to decide, maybe they go on dates and move in together, who knows. he is also only there for another week alone, before he wakes up. 
> 
> if you also didnt notice, dream gives the sun and george gives the moon, completing their own cycle of the world.
> 
> and, when dream's family comes in crying at the end, they are witnessing him awakening, not dying :)


End file.
